tonight we dine on the flesh
of the bastard sons
of the devil incarnates
that roam the land
and plague us with normalcy,
with mediocrity,
with content.

at the darkest hour
of the deepest night
we tear out their bones
and make them instruments,
to be played as a warning to all:
do not enter this place,
if risk is something you fear.

murder them all, in cold blood,
without a chance to fight back,
preferably with their backs turned,
so they never see it coming,
and never had a single moment,
to pray to whatever God,
for a second chance.